


Hammer to Fall

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crying, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-15
Updated: 2008-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 16:19:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A self-indulgent tag for "Mystery Spot." Sam's waiting for the hammer to fall, and he's afraid it's him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer to Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Грянет Гром](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892299) by [flashgun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashgun/pseuds/flashgun)



On Wednesday morning, Sam Winchester carried his brother's body upstairs and into the room where he'd woken up to a hundred and twelve hellish Tuesdays in a row. Dean should have been heavy, but Sam was in shock, blind with grief and denial, and he barely knew what he was doing. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It was Wednesday. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.

Sam laid his brother in his own bed, the covers pushed down and rumpled where he'd slept. The CPR rhythm still counted itself out in his head, as regular as the beat of his own heart. He'd known the moment he'd felt Dean's blood pumping out warm and sticky over his hands that it was futile, but he'd kept it up for a long time anyway—much longer than the endless seconds he'd wasted waiting to wake up.

Waking up was all he could think about now. This was no different than all those other times. It had to be. It had to be because if it wasn't—

Sam couldn't think that, not yet. Numb and shaky, he climbed into the bed with Dean; once there he pressed close and held on like his life depended on it. The fragile curve of Dean's skull rested in the palm of his hand. Bitter dread made a fist in his chest, but he forced himself to breathe past it and squeeze his eyes shut and wait.

He lay there as the hours dragged past, Dean's body growing cold against his, until the daylight bled away and night came, bringing with it no mercy.

* * *

__"Sam."

Dean cupped his hands around his mouth, dropping his voice so it sounded like he was talking into a tin can. "Yo, Sam. Earth to Sam. Come in, planet Sam." Seeing Sam had finally tuned in, he dropped the act and leaned back, laying an arm over the back of the diner's booth. "Dude, I'm talkin' to myself over here."

Sam blinked. "Sorry. Guess I zoned out for a minute." A chicken sandwich and fries he didn't remember ordering sat in front of him, and judging by the half-decimated plate of eggs and fried steak on Dean's side of the table, it had been sitting there a while.

"Yeah, more like you took a trip to the Andromeda galaxy." Dean's expression quirked. "Hey, did I tell you they're remaking Barbarella?" Sam forced a laugh and shook his head. Dean grinned back, but then said more seriously, "You okay? You been kinda out of it ever since this morning."

Sam's gaze faltered. He picked up a french fry and used it to slide the onion slice off of his tomato and onto a side plate. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

They'd left Broward County in the rearview twelve hours ago. He'd been fighting the hot, choked feeling ever since, everything too close to the surface. He shoved it down now, clearing his throat and keeping his eyes carefully averted from Dean's, trying not to let it show that all he'd been able to think about most of the day was how much he wished he was four years old again so he could climb into his brother's lap and bury his face in Dean's shirt.

Dean didn't shift his posture, acting like it was no big deal, but his voice dropped half a register and Sam could feel the keen attention of his gaze. "Right, why wouldn't you be."

Sam knew it had to look bad if Dean was worried enough to keep asking. "I'm fine" was basic Winchester code for _nobody's going to die if we don't talk about this in the next ten minutes, so let's not, and forget it ever happened._ On a good day, Dean was inclined to take the buy no questions asked, and the way things had been going lately, he'd turned avoidance into a world-class Olympic sport.

Sam made himself look up and found a smile, or something close to one. "I'm good. Everything's good. Really." He picked up his sandwich and took a bite out of it, chewing like it tasted better than anything he'd tasted in ages.

Dean gave him the familiar, appraising look he'd been giving Sam all his life, the one that knew all the little tells Sam couldn't hide, that could read most of what was going on with him in about two seconds flat. He waited until Sam swallowed before he said, "Yeah, well, I know fine when I see it, and what you got goin' on right there? That ain't it."

Despite himself, Sam snapped. He put the sandwich down. "What the fuck do you want me to say, Dean?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. He spread his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down there, Grinchy. Sorry I said anything."

Sam bit his tongue and fought the ache that pressed against his sinuses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. What the fuck was he doing? "No, I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm in such a crappy mood tonight. Guess I'm more tired than I thought."

Dean looked at him for a long minute, then grunted and signaled for the check. "Come on, Miss Congeniality, let's get you home."

* * *

Hours later, Dean slept while Sam lay awake in the muddy half-dark of the motel room, listening to him breathe. Dean wasn't so far wrong. Sam did feel like an alien, out of place in his own skin, in the old lies of a life he'd almost forgotten. He didn't know how to measure time any more. Six months since Dean had bled out over his hands in a motel parking lot. A hundred Tuesdays before that. Now he'd stepped back into this existence, this slow slide into his own desperation and Dean's dwindling months, a whole different brand of despair.

He remembered all the things they weren't talking about, how he'd started to give up despite himself, how he didn't believe any more that the world could be saved, never mind Dean, and how he couldn't talk about any of that to Dean, not now. He remembered (it felt so long ago, now) Bobby asking him about his powers and how it was one more thing he couldn't talk to Dean about.

Sam's head ached. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to get himself under control, but it wasn't happening. It had been so long since he'd been able to feel anything at all, and he couldn't remember his old ways of dealing. Dean alive was better than Dean dead, but when Dean was dead there'd been nothing to be afraid of. The worst had already happened. Now he had something to lose again, and he didn't know how he was supposed to find the strength.

Finally he couldn't take it any more and he looked over, let himself look his fill like he'd wanted to do all day. In the faint acid glow of the porch light outside, Dean slept the sleep of the just with one hand flung out toward Sam, the other under his pillow, a little frown between his eyebrows—no different than a thousand other nights, a thousand other motel rooms. It still didn't feel real.

It wasn't just Sam's head that hurt. His chest felt tight, but it'd been so long since he'd let himself do anything with that feeling. So long since he could. All those months when Dean was gone, that part of him had been locked away so deep, he wasn't sure he even knew how any more.

As if sensing he was in trouble, Dean stirred. "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam swallowed hard and had to bite his tongue to keep from making a noise. He wanted to say yes, tried to choke everything back, but it was too much to control and he couldn't quite muffle the sound that tried to break open in his throat.

"Sam?" Dean said, sitting up.

"I'm okay," Sam managed in desperation, though he wasn't. "Go back to sleep."

"Yeah, right, like that's happening. You sound like a sick buffalo." It was supposed to make Sam laugh, and Sam did, but it didn't help.

The choked sob broke without warning, then, hot and bitter. He threw an arm over his face and bit his tongue to try and keep Dean from hearing, but his head was killing him and he felt like he was shaking himself apart. The next sob broke free, soft but unmistakable. _Fuck._ He shoved his face into the pillow and tried desperately to muffle the sound, frustrated with himself for letting it get this bad, but he could hear Dean pushing back the covers and getting up. "Don't—" he managed to get out, but it was too late; Dean's hand found his shoulder in the dark and it broke whatever semblance of control Sam had.

He sat up so fast it made him dizzy; Dean didn't fight it, just let Sam grab hold of his shirt and pull him in and turn his face into Dean's chest, hot tears soaking through the thin cotton before Sam could stop himself. Sam felt Dean stiffen, but he didn't pull away. Instead his hand came up and found Sam's shoulder, fist knotting in Sam's shirt, pure instinct. "Hey. Hey, come on, man, take it easy. I'm right here."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—" His breathing hitched and all he could feel was Dean, sleep-warm and solid underneath his face, Dean's arm around him a relief Sam didn't know how to deal with.

Dean pulled back finally, trying to see his face. "Sam. Talk to me. What did you see?"

Sam breathed a laugh, broken and raw. He tried to explain, but the words wouldn't come.

Dean sat down next to him and patted his back awkwardly. The side of his thigh pressed warm reassurance against Sam's. When Sam couldn't answer, Dean rubbed a circle between Sam's shoulder blades. "Come on, you're kind of freaking me out, here, kiddo." His voice sounded strained.

Sam clenched his eyes shut. The love he felt for his brother surged up as strong as an underground river, too much for one person to contain. It made his hands shake. How could he, even for one second, have let himself feel anything but gratitude for this?

"I don't know what to do, Dean," he whispered, barely able to get the words out. "I can't do this without you." Without knowing he meant to do it, he reached up and pressed the heel of his palm against the pulse at Dean's neck.

Dean went still, and for that one second, Sam couldn't even be sorry. They'd been living with this for months. Ever since Dad died, really, and it wasn't like either of them could pretend different. Admitting it couldn't make things any worse.

"I _can't,_" he said miserably, pulling back and meeting Dean's eyes. "I have to, I know I have to, but Dean, with you gone—" He choked on the memory, a vast, dark sea of ugly truth he could barely swallow and never wanted Dean to know.

"Hey," Dean said, stern, and seized hold of Sam's wrist, forcing Sam to look at him. His expression was caught between too many emotions to read, all of them pained. "C'mon, man. You gotta calm down." Sam flinched from it because he knew Dean was right. Of course it could get worse. If he let the truth of his heart break out and spill messily past the edges of whatever coping mechanisms they'd managed so far, he was going to go right over the edge of something irrevocable and drag Dean down with him.

"Sam," Dean said, his voice breaking harder, his mouth unsteady. He was still in Sam's space, barely a hand's breadth between them and before he could say anything else, Sam leaned in, not knowing what he meant to do until it was too late.

Memory welled up from some deep place, some long ago childhood remembrance almost as old as he was, the light, warm pressure of his brother's lips against his. His eyes closed, the swell of feeling intense and strange—so long since he'd kissed another person—but warm and unexpectedly heady at the same time.

Dean made a sound, so faint Sam felt it more than heard it, and the sudden flush of heat and awareness made his heart start to pound in a belated rush. Fuck, what the hell was he doing?

Face hot, he pulled away and swallowed. He sought Dean's gaze.

His brother's face was twisted up with emotion, and the terrible understanding there made Sam feel like he'd stepped out into thin air over a thousand foot drop. He'd crossed a line he'd never meant to cross—he'd broken a seal on something that never should have seen the light of day. Sam wanted to say something to fix it, to take it back and make this okay somehow, but that was the problem, wasn't it? It wasn't even a little bit okay. It hadn't been for a long time.

He swallowed hard and made himself let go.

Belatedly, Dean's fingers unclenched from his wrist, and he got up like an afterthought, putting a careful three feet between them. "Sam—"

Sam rubbed his face, then leaned forward, head in his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered thickly. "I shouldn't have done that."

_Damn right you shouldn't have,_ was what Sam expected, and maybe a clock to the jaw, or worse, but what Dean said was, "It's okay," the way he'd said it a thousand times in a thousand different ways since they were little, like he could make it true by saying it.

Sam choked, a soft, broken-off sound. Leave it to Dean to try and fix this like he tried to fix everything else. "No," he said. "It's not." He made himself look at his brother. His crazy, stupid brother who'd held Sam together with his bare hands their whole lives. "Dean, it's not."

Dean gave a rough laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, you got some kind of magic fix-it, I'd love to hear it."

Sam drew a sharp breath, feeling it like a punch. That rueful acknowledgment was dangerous. It made Sam's blood stir in ways that burned away his will to fight it. He tried to shy away from the hope, from naming what he wanted, but the ache of wanting it was shamefully sweet and ran through every part of him like bright veins of ore in bedrock, so deeply tangled with everything he was, he didn't think it could ever be unraveled.

At the look on Sam's face, Dean's expression softened. He took a step toward Sam, and it was all Sam could take. The Trickster was right and he didn't care. He reached out wordlessly and caught Dean's hand in his; drawing Dean close, he pressed his forehead against the back of his brother's wrist. The truth made a fist in his chest, and he closed his eyes, unable to remember a time when he hadn't felt like this about Dean, hadn't burned quietly with it and tried to tell himself it was something other than what it was.

After a long moment, he felt Dean's other hand come to rest heavy at the back of his head. Sam let himself hold on tighter, let himself feel the warm roughness of Dean's calluses, the strength, his steady pulse beating at the base of his thumb. The desire to taste it ached at the back of his throat, and he swallowed it back, feeling sick. He had to stop this right now, he knew he had to, but there was no way. He'd die before he'd leave Dean. He wasn't strong enough to make that choice again, to see what it would do to his brother, no matter how much he knew it was what he should do.

"Dean, you have to stop me," he whispered. His heart thudded heavy and fast in his chest. He meant the words in every way it was possible to mean them, and he couldn't pretend any more that this wasn't happening. That it hadn't been happening for months.

"Who says I want to?" Dean said in a small voice.

The confession flooded Sam with a wave of longing. He couldn't help it; he found Dean's shirt again with his free hand and wound his fist in it, feeling the heat of Dean's body, the steady thrum of his pulse at his waist. Dean was warm and alive and Sam remembered everything, remembered Bobby's blood on his hands and the terrifying vertigo he'd felt trying to live in a world without Dean, the dead thing he'd seen in the mirror. This seemed like such a small betrayal by comparison. But this was what he'd been punished for—this was the sin that had won him the unwelcome attention of a god. It wasn't small at all. If the Trickster was right, it might be the one thing that would cost them everything.

He still couldn't make himself let go. His pulse beat heavy and hot at his throat, all through his chest, and Dean wasn't saying no. The hunger he felt for Dean to keep touching him ran straight through him like a ley line.

"Be sure," he said hoarsely. "Be sure, because I don't think I can—"

"You moron," Dean interrupted. He moved, then, quick and decisive, going to one knee between Sam's legs and taking Sam's face in his hands. He made Sam look at him, his intent irresistible. "What did you think, huh? There's no halfway for me when it comes to you. Never was."

Sam gave a watery laugh. "That's the whole fucking problem, isn't it?" he managed.

"Pretty much," Dean agreed.

Sam's chest hitched on a deep breath he couldn't control. He knew everything he felt was written all over him, and he was helpless to stop it. Was it months, really, or was it their whole lives?

It didn't matter, because Dean's wry, steady gaze forgave him everything like it had so many times before, and Sam remembered in a rush what it had been like, living alone, feeling like he'd been cut in half and had the best parts of him ripped away. Now Dean was right here, touching him, and Sam gave in at last to the ache he'd denied and suppressed and subverted for longer than he could remember. Trembling, he leaned in; his hand slipped up the side of Dean's neck, finding his heartbeat.

He could feel the heat coming off Dean's body, the tension wound all through him despite what he'd said, but Dean's eyes were on his mouth and before Sam could make himself let go, Dean said roughly, "Ah, screw it," and jerked forward.

Sam couldn't think past the jackhammer of his heart, but God, it was so good. Dean's mouth was warm and insistent on his, and it made Sam want to open up and let him in, let him so deep inside that nothing would ever separate them. He made a helpless sound; Dean's tongue touched his and the heat that spiraled out from that touch felt like it lit Sam up from the inside. It was everything he wanted, and not even close to enough.

And, yeah, he'd known this on some level most of his life, but it didn't help. Dean's hands were on his skin, their mouths hungry and uncertain, and Sam could feel himself shaking with how wrecked it made him feel, how badly he wanted more. It wasn't even about sex, though that was there, too, months of abstinence taking their toll. But mostly, it was about needing to feel as close to Dean as it was possible for two people to get. It was about not knowing who he was without Dean, and needing to do something, anything, to hold on to him when it felt like all the forces of the universe were telling him he had to let go.

Their mouths broke apart and Dean leaned his head against Sam's; they stayed like that breathing harsh and ragged, Dean's grip fierce on Sam's neck and Sam's fist ruched up in Dean's shirt. Dean's aftershave and the warm smell of his skin, heady and familiar, overwhelmed Sam. He could feel the coil of fear in the racing of Dean's pulse, in his own body's reaction. They couldn't go back from this. It only made him want to taste Dean again and not stop, to get naked and feel Dean against him and get Dean's scent all over him, to feel Dean come apart and spill himself all over Sam until they smelled like each other and Sam was as messy and wrecked on the outside as he felt on the inside.

"Tell me we're doing this," Dean said, low and hoarse, his voice splintered at the edges. "Tell me you're okay with it."

"Yes," Sam said before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes, defeated. "Yeah, Dean— God. Yes."

Dean took a deep breath. Sam felt his head lift; Dean pulled back and held Sam at the back of the neck until Sam had no choice but to look at him.

The way Dean was looking at him made Sam's stomach flip over, his blood rush south. There weren't words for everything that was good and strong and steady about his brother, and there was no one, god or otherwise, in this world or any other who understood that the way he did. Maybe that was why. Right then, it seemed like reason enough.

Sam hauled Dean against him, not stopping until they were both on the bed and Dean lay on top of him; Dean made a soft grunt that might have been half-hearted protest, but he was hard, and Sam was, too, and that inescapable fact shut Dean up long enough for Sam to get what he wanted, which was the two of them stretched out with Dean's weight on him, limbs tangled and bodies aligned. Sam shifted so Dean was straddling his thigh, then pulled Dean to him and kissed him, fierce and deep, holding on with both hands. It felt as good as Sam had imagined, and he couldn't help thinking that if the world ended right there, he'd be okay with it.

"Dean—" he said, breaking off with a ragged gasp and eyes clenched shut. He didn't know what he was asking, but Dean's hands came up in answer, and the light pressure of his fingertips, the heel of his palm against Sam's jaw made Sam groan faintly with relief.

He gave himself over to Dean's careful handling like he was surrendering everything in him, and it was what he'd needed so badly. It was everything. The instinctive rocking of his body into Dean's and the way Dean moved against him made it better, but he could barely register anything past the answering possessiveness of Dean's hands and the heat of his mouth, the intense stroking of his tongue against Sam's.

Dean broke off this time and made a choked sound, hips grinding down into Sam's. Sam could feel the faint sweat that had sprung up at Dean's temples and between his legs, and it made Sam want to lick him everywhere, to taste the salt heat of his skin. "Fuck, you're so—" Dean said, and the rough rasp of his voice did things to Sam. Heavy heat pulsed through him and he felt the rush of arousal like a blow.

"Don't stop," he choked out, face hot with it. "Please."

"Yeah." Dean licked his lips, intent on Sam's mouth. "Fuck, okay." Clumsy, his hands rode rough under Sam's shirt, and Sam pushed himself up, letting Dean strip it off him. Sam struggled with Dean's T-shirt in turn; he felt the stitching tear and then it was off and Dean was naked to the waist, tugging at Sam's sweats and cursing softly. "Come on, dammit, what'd you tie a knot in these frickin' things?" His hands were shaking as badly as Sam's. Then he had the knot undone and yanked the pants down, and Sam was naked and exposed, cock jutting up flushed in his lap between them. Sam felt the heat in his face and couldn't breathe right, but it was worth it when Dean went still, lashes veiling his eyes and a convulsive swallow making his Adam's apple move. "Christ," he said, sounding choked, and his hands came to rest unsteady on Sam's hips. "Sam—"

"Don't," Sam grated out, voice shaking with it, and he couldn't have kept his hands off Dean for anything. One found the small of Dean's back and the other curled around Dean's neck; Sam ran his thumbs over Dean's bare skin, staking a claim he'd never needed to make explicit before. The part that scared the hell out of him was no part of Dean's body or his expression denied him the right—one more thing he'd always known, and never really dealt with.

There was no denying the way it made him feel now. He closed his eyes and pulled Dean down and took his mouth again, breathing him in and trying to put everything he felt into it. His sweats were tangled around his knees, his erection trapped between them and rubbing the elastic band of Dean's underwear with obscene friction, but that intense pleasure was secondary to the steady thrum of Dean's pulse against his fingertips, the heavy weight and reality of him.

"That bad, huh?" Dean said when they had to break again for air.

"You have no fucking idea." Sam buried his face against Dean's throat, remembering Dean dead in his arms and how badly he'd lost it. His hands tightened.

"Hey," Dean said, gruff. Then his voice lowered and he said more gently, "Hey, I'm right here." He held Sam down, pressing his body into Sam's as if to prove it, then shifted down between Sam's thighs and licked him, a sudden hot, wet pressure of his tongue against nerves that were so hungry for touch, Sam choked and cried out, stomach muscles clenching and a wordless plea breaking in his throat.

"Okay?" Dean murmured it into his skin, rubbed his face rough against Sam's nakedness.

"Don't stop. God—" Sam shut his eyes and words left him, his chest hitching in deep, desperate gasps as the pleasure knotted up hard inside him. Dean didn't stop, just urged him headfirst into it with steady, thorough caresses of his tongue, and Sam clutched his body around Dean's broad shoulders, helpless to do anything but give in and come apart faster than he'd ever done in his life. Dean was touching his balls, licking him, sucking him— oh, God. Dean's fucking mouth. The one person in the world who was everything, who would do anything for him, and now this—

Dean stripped his sweatpants off and held him down, went down on him with a light scrape of teeth that made Sam shudder with exposed awareness of how fucked up this was, how desperately wrong it was that Dean's mouth on him should be the most erotic, intense pleasure he'd ever felt.

He tried to hold on to some shred of control, but his hips rose helplessly and with them the tight coil of pleasure in his belly, the pressure of Dean's hands driving him fast and hard up the ramp of his own urgency. He found Dean's head, soft bristle under his palm, and the feel of him moving like that made Sam moan and thrust into the fast rhythm his desperation demanded. "Dean, I can't."

Dean didn't stop. Sam shuddered and surged into Dean's hands, and when he came, pleasure seizing him without mercy, it was with a hoarse, choked cry that betrayed how far undone he was by Dean's mouth soft and hot around him.

He still trembled with aftershocks when Dean eased himself off and rested his head against Sam's thigh. He swallowed and spread his fingers against Sam's hip. "You got no idea how bad I wanted to do that," he breathed into Sam's skin like a confession.

Sam had no name for all the things he felt about that, but what came out was a laugh, breathless and disbelieving. "Seriously?"

Dean's head came up, offended. "Yeah. Dude, don't laugh at me."

Still shaky, Sam opened his eyes and looked down. "I'm not. I'm not. Dean—" He fought the sudden giddiness, squeezing Dean's shoulder in apology. "Yeah. I do."

Dean's eyebrows arched in surprise, and his expression combined with the way his hair stuck up every which way made Sam want to laugh again. "Yeah?" Dean asked, uncertain.

Sam's love for him hit him again, an immense fist of emotion that made it hard to breathe. He could only hold himself still and try to keep it together, head spinning with the realization of what they were doing, all the walls they kept kicking down and how it was going to change everything. "Yeah," he said, his heart in his throat and his voice betraying him, and it didn't help to say it, because wrapped up with everything else he felt there was the abyss that opened up when he thought about the unthinkable. Dean taken from him. Dean in Hell, being punished for loving his family too much, for throwing himself between Sam and the darkness like he'd always done. Sam's hand clenched on Dean's arm, his thoughts shutting down in denial.

"Hey," Dean said, stern, though his voice sounded rough. "Cut it out, okay? Told you, I'm right here."

Sam tried to answer, but his throat had closed, the leaden weight he knew well pressing on his chest.

"Sammy, c'mon, don't." Dean's expression was pained, now, and Sam could read everything in it, Dean's helpless love for him and the frustration he felt, his worry and fear for Sam—the part he lived with every day, like Sam did—and the smaller, quieter measure of fear for himself that he was barely aware of.

"Yeah, okay," Sam managed. He could barely get the words out, but it was enough. Dean still pressed hard and hot against him, and when Sam stroked his thumb down along the vein in Dean's neck, Dean shivered and closed his eyes.

Sam hauled him up without asking and rolled them so he was on top, Dean sprawled out and hungry underneath, letting him do what he wanted. Dean's eyes slitted open to watch what Sam would do, and Sam could see him breathing hard, the way his hands clenched into fists, betraying the urge he felt to grab on and manhandle Sam where he needed him. A heady, powerful feeling welled up in Sam, and the strong desire to make Dean fall apart the same way he had. All their lives, Dean had been the one who kept it together when Sam was unraveling, and he only ever let Sam see him without his walls up when things were at their worst. For once, Sam wanted to see him come apart in the good way, to give Dean something good.

He couldn't think about it too much, or he'd lose it for real. This was still Dean, the keystone of his whole world, the person who'd taken care of him as long as he'd been alive, and his awareness of that lay side by side with the hunger he felt to knock down every last wall between them, to make Dean let go and give in to what they felt so that he could, too. It didn't work if they weren't in it together, and Sam needed it to work more than he'd ever needed anything.

He touched Dean's thighs, stilled with his hands on Dean's hips. "Can I—?"

Dean swallowed hard, eyes closing again, and turned his face away. "You gotta ask?" Sam could see the pulse throbbing hard at his throat. Between his hands, Dean rose up curved and hard against his boxer briefs. There was a dark wet spot at the head, and Sam felt himself swell again at the evidence of how much Dean wanted this. He swallowed and leaned down, pressing his lips to Dean and breathing him in. After a moment, heart pounding, he let his tongue slip out to taste the slick saltiness through cotton.

"Sammy," Dean said, and it sounded like it hurt him.

It made Sam get all the way hard again and like everything else, that was as messed up as it was a turn-on, but he was past caring. He rubbed his face against Dean's erection, feeling the way Dean swelled harder and surged up at the contact. Sam shoved the noise and panicked warning in his head away and pulled Dean's underwear down, stripping them off so they were both naked. Hands shaking, he touched his fingertips to Dean's dick, then wrapped his hand around it, the skin soft and hot against his palm.

Dean's hands found his neck and shoulder, one sliding up into Sam's hair as if Dean couldn't help himself. He pressed up into Sam's grip, and Sam could feel him trembling with the effort to control his need; when Sam bent down and touched his tongue to the warm skin below the head of his cock, Dean broke and surged up under him, letting out a ragged breath like a curse. Salt-slick fluid slid over Sam's lips and he licked at it in blind instinct, spreading a hand against Dean's hip to hold him down.

At the bittersweet taste, he felt his own renewed arousal clench low in his gut, but he ignored it and closed his eyes, listening to Dean, the way he shuddered and choked back the sounds he wanted to make. He thrust unsteadily into Sam's fist, into his mouth when Sam let himself take more of him, sucking hungrily at the head. It was all he could do to give in to the rhythm Dean set, to let Dean slowly fuck his mouth and his fist and hold on.

Dean pushed himself up for a better view. "Jesus, Sammy, I wish you could see yourself right now," he managed, sounding wrecked, and then groaned as Sam held him down harder, trying to take more of him in. "You're gonna fucking kill me."

Sam broke away, breathing hard. He braced himself over Dean, fisting him with a slow, steady pressure. His heart raced, his own dick heavy now between his legs. Dean was slick in his hand and Sam could see the flush spreading all over him, his eyes hot and lips parted, and Sam knew what he meant.

Sam bent his head and licked away the fresh surge of fluid, then looked up and jerked Dean harder, letting his hand move faster, unable to stop himself. He wanted Dean to come in his mouth, but more than that he wanted to watch him, to see what he looked like when he couldn't hold back any more.

Dean's hand tightened in Sam's hair and he closed his eyes, tensing up. "Sam, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Sam said. "Let me see you. Come on."

Their eyes met and held. When Dean was close Sam stopped jerking him, just held him, and Dean sucked in a sharp breath. "Fuck, Sam. Fuck, oh, God," and a second later he was coming, body clenched and caught in the grip of it, helpless and as bright and exposed as Sam had wanted, open and honest and holding on to Sam like the world would end before he'd let go. Sam stroked him slowly through it and watched his face, and it was better even than Dean's mouth had been. His body flushed with sympathetic heat.

"So hot," he managed, alight with a hunger he didn't know how to control. He'd wanted this for so long, and he couldn't help the way it made him feel. "Dean, Jesus."

"Come on, Sammy, come on," Dean urged, fumbling, grabbing clumsy hold of him, one hand on Sam's wrist and the other on his cock. "Yeah, come for me, do it—" A few ragged strokes was all it took before Sam came a second time, bracing himself on one arm and spilling all over Dean's stomach and thighs. He shook with it, and all he could think was that he'd felt trapped and helpless for so long, it was a desperate relief to not feel so alone any more, to feel like Dean was with him in every way that mattered.

"I'm not letting you go," Sam said when he couldn't take it any more, bowing his head to rest it against Dean's heart. "I'm not."

"Sam—"

"Shut up," Sam insisted, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please, just let me believe it."

He heard the naked desperation in his voice and couldn't care. Dean had gone still beneath him, but when Sam shifted up and brought their mouths together, fierce and determined, Dean met him with equal strength and heat that Sam tasted like a promise.

* * *

__After, they lay shaken and messy, staring up at the dingy motel ceiling. The long yellow beam of headlights cut through the darkness in the room; it arced away and was gone a moment later, the sound of car tires on the wet pavement fading. Sam felt Dean shift against him, the heat of his skin more than Sam knew how to bear.

"Sam, listen to me. I know it sucks, okay? I know it sucks hard, and I'm sorry, I told you that, but what choice is there? I can't undo it. And you have to— you just have to."

Sam closed his eyes and turned his face away. "Can we not talk about it? Not right now. Please."

_Something else happened,_ he imagined saying, and thinking about saying it made his throat and chest close up. _With the Trickster. I didn't tell you everything._

Not for the first time, his mind conjured up a wash of half-memories of the handful of times when he was thirteen, fourteen years old and Dean's hands on him stitching him up after a hunt, ruffling his hair, rubbing his back with the easy affection of a tolerant older brother had been enough to make him jerk off furtively in the bathroom, rushed and mortified with Dean's voice, Dean's rough touch in his head. Sam had tried not to think about it since then, not more than the most fleeting of thoughts at least, but maybe it was inevitable. Maybe what was wrong with him would eventually poison everything, and it was stupid of him to think that this one thing was safe.

Sam covered his eyes with his forearm and swallowed. Safe. That was a joke. Dean would make excuses for him until the end of time, he knew that, but it wouldn't change anything. The Trickster was right—this wasn't normal, what he felt, what they both felt about each other. It made perfect sense that they'd end up like this after everything, but that didn't make it any better.

As if he knew, as if he'd known all along, Dean said in a low voice, "Whatever happened back there, it wasn't real, Sam."

Sam made a small, helpless sound. "Yes, it was. It was real. You don't remember it, but it wasn't a dream. It happened." His voice broke and sank into a whisper. "It still could."

"We're not gonna let it, remember?"

Dean's answer came matter-of-fact, and so sure. He believed in Sam. Believed they'd still find a way to save him. Believed that somehow Sam was stronger than Dean was, that he could do what Dean hadn't been able to, and go on alone. Dean didn't know about the hell of those months Sam carried, so real inside of him. Sam had thought he knew how bad it could get, when Jess died. When Dad did. He'd been wrong.

_Dad was right,_ he wanted to say. _Dean, he was right about me all along._

"Yeah," he said into the dark. "I remember." He found Dean's wrist and rested his fingertips against the beat of his heart; Dean let him, only the soft huff of a sigh for complaint. "We're gonna save you."

"Damn straight we are," Dean said. After a long moment, he added, "Sleep, Sam. I'm not goin' anywhere."

* * *

__Sam jolted awake, so deeply shaken he couldn't move for a minute, his heart pounding in thready panic. His arms tightened around Dean and Dean half-woke, slurring Sam's name like he'd dragged himself from a deep, drugged stupor. "Sammy?"

Around the awful knot in his chest, Sam managed, "It's okay. Go back to sleep." With a soft sound like he meant to protest, Dean did, burying his face into the pillow.

Sam sat up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, still shaking from the nightmare, one of the worst and most vivid he'd ever had. In it, he'd been back in the diner in Florida, having a conversation with Dean across the table while he calmly sliced pieces off his brother and ate them. He didn't know which was worse: the dream or the traitorous, completely lucid thought that came through clear as the ringing of crystal in the moment of waking, that if Dean was dead he'd never know what Sam was really capable of.

Sam got up and went outside. He went out to the car and found Dean's flask; under the citrine burn of the light on their tiny porch, he sat in a broken plastic chair and drank half of it, his hands cold as ice and acid burning in his stomach. The whiskey made it worse, but eventually it slowed his heart rate and eased the shakiness.

He knew he should leave. He should leave right now, before this ended up killing them both. Except he'd died once already, and Dean would call himself a dead man walking, and Sam didn't know how to go on without Dean anyway. That was the whole fucking problem. He was terrified of the darkness inside him, terrified that Dean would be the one who had to stop him—worse, that he wouldn't be able to—but trying to do this by himself was the fastest path to disaster for him. As long as Dean was with him, he felt like there was something to hold on to. Alone, he was a fucking train wreck. He knew that now. He'd seen it happen.

His confession burned now behind his breastbone, and he wished he'd never said it. The last thing he wanted was to push Dean away with the all the ugliness inside him, not when they had so little time left. He needed Dean to keep believing what he'd done was worth it. It might be the only thing he could do for Dean, in the end, and even that was a fragile thing, tenable only as long as he and Dean conspired to pretend that there was some future in which Sam could go on fighting the good fight alone.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but the flask was down to dregs by the time the door opened and Dean emerged, scratching at his belly and rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand. Sam glanced up, caught an eyeful of Dean's bare chest. He was wearing Sam's pajama pants, slung low around his hips. Sam's gaze fell away, his stomach clenching.

Dean leaned in the doorway, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep. Sam glanced over again and found Dean studying him closely.

"Hey."

"You freaking out on me?"

"What? No."

Dean raised an eyebrow, looking at the flask. "Really."

But Sam wasn't, not the way Dean meant. He should be freaking out about the sex, about what they'd done. But it was years late for that, and he was tired of pretending.

"S'not that. Just couldn't sleep."

After a moment, Dean came and sat beside him and held out a hand for the flask. Sam passed it over wordlessly.

"Wanna talk about it?" Dean asked, and it shouldn't have been possible but Sam loved him a little more for it. Dean would go to extreme lengths to avoid having to talk about his own fears, but when it came to Sam's, Dean had always known that Sam talking was better than the alternative.

It felt like that Sam Winchester was a long way away, a person he'd been in some other lifetime. Dean was the only thing that long-ago Sam shared with whatever he was becoming now, and even if he could talk about it, it wouldn't help anything. Dean had enough to deal with. He'd carried Sam since he was four years old, and that had to end. It was going to end, whether either of them liked it or not. Sam had to get through this on his own, and there was nothing Dean could do to help him.

He shook his head, closing himself up tight around too much knowledge.

"Not really," he said at last. He dug deep for the old Sam, the one Dean knew and loved and needed him to be; with a faint, wry smile, he glanced at his brother. "You?"

Dean considered, then shook his head. "Nah, I'm good." He handed the flask back and leaned forward, mirroring Sam's pose. Their knees rested together, a light, warm pressure through Sam's jeans; after a while, Dean reached out and rested his hand on the back of Sam's neck.

Sam, despite himself, closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer from the deepest recesses of his dark and selfish heart.

_The End _


End file.
